


Metamorphosis of Decline

by ccyoungs



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, Character Death, Drama, Fluff, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-05-14
Updated: 2012-06-27
Packaged: 2017-11-05 09:18:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Major Character Death
Chapters: 6
Words: 6,084
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/404757
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ccyoungs/pseuds/ccyoungs
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock hasn't loved John forever. But everything seems to slowly change once he finds out about John's terminal illness. Eight months to get it right, to have John's wishes granted, to soothe his pain. And putting those aside, Sherlock really tries not to fall for him. Warning: major character death</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The half-killed

**Author's Note:**

> Hello! I've been waiting forever to post this fic on AO3 and I'm really happy I've finally done it; in other order of news, this is written in first person, present tense, from Sherlock's point of view, as I can cope so well with his thoughts. This is the first part out of an unknown number of chapters. ~Try to enjoy!

Cold morning; rather calm and peaceful. Dreadful.  
I get up. Bed’s cold. Floor’s warmer. Every move I make seems shattering. Autumn came at last. A soft scent tickles my nose.  
A familiar scent; I’d say a blend of lemon and cedar leaf. John’s cologne. Inhale once; keep the scent in my lungs as long as possible. Smile. Suddenly bug. John doesn’t usually use cologne – he keeps it for special occasions. What special occasion can one celebrate at (look at my watch) 8 o’clock in the morning?  
  
(A date? Impossible. Most certainly a meeting.)  
  
The kitchen smells nice. Pancakes and a cup of coffee. He’s already left, judging by the slippers in the vestibule. I sit down, trying to enjoy the breakfast. The newspaper is on the table too. A quick look; two murders and a theft. The Scotland Yard is making great efforts to catch the criminals. Oh, dull; it’s so obvious, so clear that the murderer of the first crime must be the victim’s brother in law. As for the second one, I’d say the sister or the neighbour. If I had to guess, I’d go with the neighbour. The theft? So boring, not worth my attention.  
  
The chair next to me has been carelessly put back. I presume John was either in a hurry or very worried. Or maybe both. He forgot to put two cubes of sugar in my coffee. Most likely worried. About what?  
  
But there’s no time to ask myself questions. There he stands in front of me. John. He’s so pale in the sunlight penetrating the windows. It soothes his expression. Obviously, he cried. John barely cries. Stand up and look at him. White shirt and dark-grey vest. Black trousers. The mud on them shows me he’s been somewhere it had rained. The center of London, probably. So, formal clothing and a mysterious meeting in the heart of London.  
  
“Why have you been at the doctor?” I try to surprise him. Doesn’t work.  
He’s too distracted to pay attention to me. The look on his face is completely empty. No feelings. It’s starting to worry me. I’ve never seen him like this. Most people usually do something when they’re upset. Shout at friends’ faces. Swear at unforgettable memories. Sob into a pillow until they pass out.  
John.  
John does nothing.  
But then I suppose he’s not most people, is he?  
My dear John.  
  
He sits down in an armchair and looks on the window. Doesn’t say anything for fifteen minutes. I sit down next to him. I wait.  
“Do you remember what you told me the day we first met?” He says eventually.  
“Obviously.”  
I make it sound harsher than I intended. Smile a bit. He doesn’t seem to notice. Frowns.  
“You said you were the only consulting detective in the world.”  
“But we both know I’m not anymore. There’s two of us.” Try hard not to say it in an intimate mode. But it’s quite true; since he’s entered my world, I no longer know solitude; misery. John. Wonder if he feels the same.  
“No,” he replies.  
“What?”  
  
Is that it? Is he leaving Baker Street? Is he sick because of my way of living, always risking my life to prove my theories? It can’t be; John is not that naïve to give up this sort of living. But maybe he’s clever enough to do it.  
Teary eyes.  
Sighs.  
“I’ve got terminal cancer, Sherlock.”  
  
What? No, he doesn’t; can’t.  
  
I’ve survived the most terrible cases without going insane. Blood; madness. Dreadful criminals with strange joys of killing. Remarkable assassins. Brilliant master minds. Nothing competes with the sudden pain inside me; an urge to kill. Kill who?  
  
No.  
  
I have to detach my mind at will to a remarkable degree so that I won’t notice how much it hurts inside my head.  
Doesn’t work; because it’s not my head.  
It’s my heart. An organ; indispensable, yet painful. I guess people get used to this kind of pain. This is the real world, Sherlock. Affection brings along pain. They’re directly proportional. Always come together.  
  
John; he sees I’m at war with my inner self.  
“Eight months. You’ve still got me for eight months.”  
He says it in such a calm voice; unbelievable. I envy him. What am I supposed to do in eight months? So little time to say goodbye, so many things undone.  
“No. You can’t die.”  
  
Childish voice to cover the broken one; stupidity. Thinking I can cure cancer just because I don’t accept it. Yet I’m almost begging John with my eyes. To not die. To not leave me alone again.  
“Life is short, Sherlock. Even shorter when you have cancer, but even so, I can’t deny that I've done remarkable things I’ve never thought I would do, thanks to you.” He sees my confused look. “What I want to say is, whatever I have tried to do in life I have tried with all my heart to do well; I have devoted myself to the military service, to surviving, to you. To please you and make you proud of me. I’ll never have the chance to do certain things I’ve always dreamt of, but it doesn’t matter. I’ve had the best time in Baker Street because of you.”  
No.  
  
He can’t thank me; as if I gave him cancer and now he’s happy he’s dying. Isn’t it obvious? My struggle to become a good man because he’s a good man and I need him. He sees an escape when he looks at me, not a changed person at all. His hero, but not the kind type.  
  
“John?”  
“Yes?”  
“What certain things?”  
  
If there’s one more thing I can do, that’s making him happy. A genuine happiness. To remember me. Know that, somehow, I have loved him.  
“It’s stupid.” He frowns.  
“If it has to do with you, it’s not. Maybe a bit irrelevant or immature, but not stupid. What’s the first thing on the list?”  
  
He hesitates for a second, then giggles.  
“Make a parachute jump.”  
  
Childish. Risky.  
  
Dying eyes. Dry skin.  
  
John. My John.


	2. Growing younger

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John's first wish is making parachute jumpings. Sherlock has no choice, so he tries to make it come true. He thought he was accustomed to John, but he surprises him again. Immature reactions for immature human beings.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The first chapter got a lovely feedback, thank you very much! I decided to update once a week, because of my final exams. Thanks again for reading!~

London, midday. Abandoned store.  
“Oh, stop being an ass, freak. You could at least hear our opinions without showing off.”

Anderson. Same old idiot. I wonder how he got into Scotland Yard with that brain. Even his face betrays his imbecility.

“I will show off and I won’t hear a word. And I’m not an ass, am I, John?”  
“Well, maybe a bit injudicious.”

There’s a little thing I appreciate about John; his humour. Never aggressive, yet he makes me feel uncomfortable. Because it’s the same humour, but he’s not the same John.

“Okay, so what do we know until now, Sherlock?” he asks as always, in a very curious voice, trying to hide his usual excitement.  
“We know that the man was working as a repairman. Look at his coverall, full of oil stains and also a bit too large for our victim. So, it must be a uniform. Therefore, our man doesn’t work on his own, he’s hired at a motor service. Lestrade, call all the motor services in London and ask them if they have a missing employee and then text me the result. It’s clear that our man was trying to replace an engine when he was stabbed. Brilliant accuracy, right in the heart—sorry, John, couldn’t resist. Look at his fingers, they’re full of oil; fresh. The question is – why was he murdered? He only has ten pounds in his wallet, so it’s not about the money. Jealousy? He’s not married, yet he has the photo of a woman in his wallet. A secret lover? Most likely. I’ll find this woman (Carole Brown) and if her husband is a hunter or a soldier (or a criminal), then he’s your man, Lestrade. Have a good day! John, we’ll be late if we don’t leave now.”

Anderson looks at me as if I were a ghost. I can still hear him saying “How does he do that?” when me and John get in the car. He seems a bit confused; weakness in his eyes. Chest aches a bit.

“Where are we going?” he asks.  
“Granting your first wish.”

I’m already driving, but I catch a glimpse of smile on his face. One step closer to my aim. I suppose there’s a kind of happiness in unhappiness, if it’s the right unhappiness. There he sits; so close to me. John. He doesn’t look worried anymore. I think he’s enjoying our little trip.

“Why are you doing this?”  
I don’t say anything for a while. I need an answer. Not intimate, yet affectionate and kind. Not harsh, not ironical, not too serious. Not me. Realistic, yet a bit sensitive. John-like.

“You’ve saved my life. I can’t save yours, so I’ll try to soothe it. Plus, it’s a very beautiful day. British finally have some sun above them.”

Smiles. Bit not good, from my opinion. Most certainly perfect, from his. Chest doesn’t ache so much anymore. Am I in love or is this a pure, tender curiosity? Never invested in feelings. Never paid attention to mine or others’. It’s the first time I encounter the possibility of telling John about what I truly feel. Might be the last emotional thing I’ll do.

Different.

So different, yet so close to each other. Me, wanting to be appreciated by John. Him, struggling to turn me into a better man. Maybe that’s why we get along so well, after all. Craving for each other’s happiness, both enjoying lounging around in our own chaos.

That’s how we function - need him; needs me.

We arrive in less than two hours in Redlands. There’s a parachute jumping club, Lestrade used to attend it. I can’t imagine Lestrade flying. I can’t imagine him doing anything that doesn’t involve arresting. Maybe I imagine him arresting a criminal up in the air, though. John giggles as we park near the club’s campus.  
I use one of Lestrade’s confiscated IDs, telling the guides it’s absolutely necessary to show my new colleague everything about making parachute jumps. They don’t see any problem. So stupid. Human-like, actually. Humankind is stupid; this is a good deduction.

John’s never had so much fun; not with me. He laughs all the time and even makes me smile. Air suddenly feels so captivating. Running through my hair, chilling my lungs, warming my veins. I’m feet away from the ground. Falling into nothing but a green blanket of grass. My parachute opens widely. Falling stops; so does my heart. No, I want to fall. I need that cold air in my body. My solution of adrenaline. John would be happy with this habit. John is happy.

We softly land on the ground; sky seems so far away now. Untouchable. Unpredictable. A metaphor for me, my inner self.  
“That was fantastic,” John says breathless. “Thank you.”

A sigh of relief; dismiss his gratitude. Act as detached as possible to hide my true feelings. Dare to smirk. Too late; John didn’t observe it. He’s too busy gazing at the clouds above.

In the meantime, I search for faces. I miss deducing for Lestrade, making him feel miserable because he’s such a novice. A young lady stares at me and John. Think I know her. Jeans and a tight blouse (bit too tight, actually, size small. Her size is large for sure). This isn’t the proper outfit for parachute jumping. So she hasn’t left home for this purpose. Thin fingers; uses hands a lot in her job. Yes, job, judging by her age. She’s either a piano player or works on the computer. Tendency to bend her wrists in different angles, bit too high for a piano player. So, she types. A journalist who’s here by mistake. Followed someone. Peers at my face and narrows her eyes. Oh, where is the subtlety these days? Not today. Today is John’s day. The rest of my life will be a row of days dedicated to John.

“Unbelievable.”  
“Thank you.”

Wait.

Have I expressed my feelings in a loud voice? But John isn’t looking at me now; he’s resting on the ground, looking at the sky. It looks like a colour palette. Orange, pink, a bit of red and violet. Sunset. May be seven o’clock or so, given the fact that it’s autumn. Look above; then at John. He’s so peaceful. He doesn’t look tired; he’s rather enthusiastic. But this is his melancholic side. Always in search of bohemian views, of the dreamy part of life.

I rest next to him.

“Looks like a painting, doesn’t it?”  
“Actually, some colours are scattered out of the beam by air molecules and airborne particles, which practically change the final colour of the beam viewers like us see.”  
“Sherlock, not now. Don’t you see? It’s more an art than pure astronomy. Or science itself.”  
“More an art than a science?”

“All good science is art. All good art is science. Look at you and your violin. You have an amazing skill which at the end of the day is considered artistic. You’re an artist. Even so, playing the violin will always be science to me. So coordinated, so harmonious, so…”

Speechless.

I’ve always lived with the wrong impression that John is ordinary. Maybe a bit above general population, but average. Yet he makes this comparison. Makes me smile; I suppose he’s right, though. A dreamer wrapped in plumbum. If I hadn’t met John, I would most probably have been only plumbum. Lonely old man, dying broken soul.

“Thank you, John.”  
“For what?”  
So modest, yet sincere.  
“Taking away the plumbum inside me.”

He’s baffled. Doesn’t he understand? The effect he has on me, on my whole being? Effect; that’s it. So clear now; I’m the cause of his present life, of all the things he’s thanked me so many times. Every cause coexists with an effect. Together, they’re the center of everything.  
He needs to know this too.

It’s essential.

“I’m the cause to your effect, John. We coexist.”  
“When you’re not too busy shooting at walls and keeping heads in the fridge, yes.”

He takes it as a joke.  
Give up.  
Suddenly laughs.

“I still can’t believe you put that head in the fridge, oh God.”  
“Why? I told you, it was an experiment.”  
“It was sitting on some slices of cheese. My favourite kind of cheese.”

This time I laugh too. A natural, unforced giggle. Really needed it.  
“This isn’t the way it should be,” John murmurs.  
“Tell me the right way, then.”

He doesn’t dare. Nor do I.

Hence we sit more silent than ever, listening to the sigh of the wind, watching the sky getting darker and darker. I guess we’re not just another futile couple in Nicholas Sparks’s stories. Wish we were meant to stay like this forever.


	3. What once didn't exist

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John, Sherlock & co. have dinner, but more important than that is the fact that Sherlock realises something he's been dismissing for long.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry for being late, I've had loads of term tests and tests and research projects and no time to actually finish this chapter, that's why it's a bit shorter than the other two. Enjoy reading and thank you for the feedback!~  
> P.S. You can now find me on tumblr too, at alaskaberry.tumblr.com

It’s been two months.

That means John will be gone in about six months. I’ll be on my own; like I’ve always been before he came into my life and broke down the walls I had built.  
I have sketched my plan; somewhere inside my head, hidden from everyone else. Must stay detached.

“No, you mustn’t. I’ll be fine.”

John has little pains now and then. Pain is new; John’s pain disturbs me. Because, for the first time in my life, I feel useless. Medicines help him most of the time, but hearing him moan in terrible pains at night hurts me. Must find a way to help him.

“No, I told. It’s okay.”

John. Won’t even let me help him. “I have cancer, Sherlock, not broken bones.” Silly; can read it in his eyes. A sparkle of fear. Realistic; John’s not stupid. He knows he’ll die. But then, why fear? Why not rage? Must know.

“No, Sherlock.”

“But—“

“Sherlock, you’ve never cooked anything. Unless it’s a soup.”

“My soup is tasty, thank you very much.”

Both decided to prepare dinner for tonight. American Thanksgiving day or something, I suppose? It's on his wish list; John says he’s celebrated it once, when he was sent to U.S. due to some army stuff. Says it’s nice. “The holiday or the army?” He doesn’t laugh.

John stopped laughing at my stupid-like questions. Stopped doing certain things. Yet he’s standing in front of me, about to cook a turkey, looking as normal as possible, if celebrating Thanksgiving in Britain is considered normal. Strews the turkey with condiments. Smells nice; thyme. Also mint.

“Good, I’ll go call Lestrade and Molly.”

“What about Mycroft?”

“Thought you’d like to call him. He’s your brother, thought you’d forget about the conflict for one night.”

Dismiss it.

“I’ve forgotten it already,” I hiss. “Which is different from not wanting to talk to him.”

He rolls his eyes. That’s John.

“When I accepted to live in this flat, I didn’t think I would have to take care of a five year old.”

Goes away; frustrated. Frustration is good. Irritation works as well. The next five hours seem to vanish rapidly and soon I realise Molly, Mrs. Hudson, Lestrade and Mycroft are standing in front of me, smiling and patting John’s back. Saying they’re sorry.

Dinner is delicious; bit too salty, but incredibly tasty. Mycroft goes on and on about Britain’s issues regarding economy and politics; Lestrade keeps talking to Molly about how adventurous and dangerous his job is, while Mrs. Hudson comforts John.

I’m the only one who doesn’t fit in the atmosphere. This is ridiculous. Mrs. Hudson suddenly remembers about celebrating this holiday once, in Canada, at her cousin.

“God rest him in peace, he was an alcoholic, but he had such a pretty silverware. He left it on his sister’s name, who sold them after a while. I’ve never forgiven her ever since.”

Molly laughs at Lestrade’s joke, and so does Mycroft. They drink some more and suddenly everyone loves everyone. Mrs. Hudson blushes and hiccups, while John tries not to giggle. And then everything changes. Mycroft mentions John’s illness in a detached way and keeps on drinking.

“Enough!” I yell at them.

I want to make them stop.

Make them shut up for ten years, but it’s too late.

I see regret in John’s eyes. And more than regret, I see tears. Unbearable. I get up from my comfy chair and go straight to my room. Ignore everyone. Hate everyone for what they did to John.

Rest on the edge of the bed. Breathe carefully.

Silence; can almost hear my heartbeats. Frightening.

Ignorance is frightening, but then again, why am I afraid?

“You ok?”

John.

“Yes, perfect. Just needed a little bit of privacy.”

Looks dazzled. Comes in and sits next to me. So close, I can smell his cologne. He’s pale and looks worse than ever. Bags under his eyes. No shadow of a past smile. Nothing.

Yet he looked so alive in the living room. It’s like I’m standing next to a ghost now.

For the first time since I’ve met him, tears stream down his face. They’re for himself, not anyone else. I want not to care, but I do. It hurts me more than any weapon. John will never go back to normal. Things will get worse. Gates are closed. Sun goes down at last and there’s nothing left for my John.

Tries to hides his face away from me. His hands reach for a handkerchief. 

“You know, the thing that gave me hope during the war was the idea of flying away from there. Coming home, alive. Now I can only think of flying as death, and I don’t want it anymore.”

I sit still. Numb. I have never taken my emotions in a too serious way, because I wasn’t interested in them. They grossed me out because they weaken people. They weaken me. My heart feels heavier, my mind stopped working for a second.

I love John Watson.

But before telling him this, must know the answer.

“John?”

“Yes?”

His voice is broken.

“What would you have done if you had been able to fly away from here?”

“I would have stayed.”


	4. Never let me go

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock and John celebrate Christmas together, one last time. There's something John wants to do, and that's dancing with Sherlock. There's an intimate moment between them and then... something happens.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Gahh, I just love Christmas and it's been pretty hard for me to describe it from Sherlock's critical point of view, but I hope I did well. Enjoy, and thanks a lot for the feedback!~
> 
>  
> 
> A recommendation: listen to Judy Bridgewater's song, Never let me go, while reading the story beginning with “I’m not a very good dancer, but I can try.” It'll make a difference in my opinion :)

John loves this Christmas.

Loves it because of three main reasons, he said. First, because of the nice atmosphere (noisy children and dying relatives, oh lovely!). Second, because it’s his last Christmas (no one can fool him; he’s a doctor. He knows). Third, because, he said, he’ll get to spend it with me.

Suddenly I feel like the winner of a prestigious, spiritual prize. Me. There’s a population of circa 7,000,000,000 individuals on this planet, and he’s chosen me to spend the Christmas time with. No parents, no university colleagues, no living soldiers. Me, me, me.

It’s his third wish; seven more to go. Why do I feel so hopeless? Why aren’t I outside this case, just like the other ones? I hate emotions. They’re destructive.

John has already decorated the flat. All this glitter and these scents, they’re not exactly my type; although, I suppose, John is enjoying them a lot. He’s laughing at everything I say, though two months ago he would barely smile. Has he accustomed to the idea of death?

Four months.

Is it enough for me to talk about what I may feel? Does he think I’m a robot? Anderson surely does. He’s pitched me once, to make sure I can feel the pain. I slapped him twice and cursed him in Greek.

How does one express their feelings? John tried to get me into crap telly. I’ve seen some of the worst soap operas, but that dramatic, heart-breaking “I love you” doesn’t seem to work in real life. Have seen it. Have looked into it. What’s the right answer to this “I love you”? Is it “I love you too”? One may love other too, but not the same way. What do I do?

“Just tell me, I’ll be upstairs,” he says, carrying two large boxes.

“What?”

“I said, if you need any help with the tree, just tell me, I’ll be back in a second.”

Seconds wander through space. The Christmas tree is ready. A bit too blue for my taste, but the star on the top of it is well made and pretty. It gives the flat a sensation of warmth and hope.

(Oh God, I think I’m becoming John. Soon I’ll start wearing reindeer print sweaters.)

“Merry Christmas, Sherlock,” John comes back, carrying a box wrapped in green paper.

He glares at me and I take the box, aware of the fact that John spent money on whoever knows what, for me.

Me.

I wonder if he bought me a kitten. Or maybe he got me a skull. Or an index finger, I kind of need one for my experiment. Or amphetamine, I’m running out of it.

“Oh, God help me.”

It’s the reindeer sweater.

“Are you sure you don’t want it?” I ask in hesitation, and he giggles. I put it on. Comfy; warm. Bit too large, but I like it.

“Merry Christmas, John.” I look for the small box I have prepared since last week and give it to him. “I really had no idea what to get you, so I told the woman at the shop about you and your character and she helped me choose a good one.”

Doesn’t open it. Stares at me.

“What did you say to her?”

Dismiss the truth.

Don’t lie.

5, 4, 3, 2, 1.

“Well?”

“I told her you were interesting and average…”

“But that didn’t help much,” John ends the sentence for me. “Come on, don’t be a dick, tell me.”

Close my eyes. This is a dream, I’ll wake up in a couple of moments and everything will vanish. Sees I don’t say anything; hands me a cup of wine. Drinks one too.

Feels better.

“I’ve told her you were an ex-soldier. Bit impulsive. Kinda romantic and clever. And that you’re my best friend and a very special person. And that I didn’t want you to go on a long trip. Now open it.”

(Please wake up; please, please, please)

I don’t wake up. (WAKE UP YOU IDIOT!)

John’s crying. (please wake up)

He hugs me.

(Fight to keep dreaming, don’t you dare wake up)

Such a warm, tight hug. I’ve only been hugged twice in my life. By my mother, when I left home to get into university, and now, by John.

Suppose he likes my present. A CD of Judy Bridgewater, his favourite singer. Told me once he used to listen to her on rainy days, on lonely days, on happy days, everytime he had a chance to do it. But I think he liked the Christmas card more than the CD. A mitten-shaped one, on which I wrote a few intimate words (Dear John, I strongly mean this addressing pattern; you really are my dear John. My John, and I have no words to describe everything that’s beautiful about you. Hope you have a happy Christmas. I’m not the most endearing person, but I want you to have the best Christmas in the history of overrated holidays. Sherlock)

“Can you make me a favour?”

Anything you wish.

Clear my throat.

“Depends.”

“Would you dance with me on this song?” He points at a small song title on the back cover of the CD. ‘Never let me go’.

“I’m not a very good dancer, but I can try.”

Suddenly, our bodies are close and tight. This feeling is unique. As a child, you would be fulfilled with joy and would scream in delight the moment you finished a 2,000 pieces puzzle. This is how I feel right now. Two halves that make a whole, finally united. I think John feels the same. Looks at me and smiles; the audio player starts playing the song. Our bodies start waving from left to right; from right to left. Slow movements, small steps back and forth. A waltz for old people. John holds my right hand tighter; he’s so warm. It’s like I’m home at last, after a long journey around the world.

“Funny. In memory everything seems to happen to music.”

“This memory will have its own soundtrack,” I say and I do the craziest thing I’ve ever done.

Lean forward.

Kiss him.

doesn’t lean back. We stay like this for two seconds or two years. Judy Bridgewater keeps singing as if she couldn’t see what has just happened.

“You’ve just gone from Mr. Grinch to Santa Claus,” John smirks. “When you stay and think about it, Christmas miracles really do exist.”

I lean forward and kiss him again. I’ve been wanting this for so long. It became essential, making John happy. 

Is this how it feels like? Being happy? John’s eyes answer instead of him.

“Merry Christmas, John.”


	5. High on life

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Pain kills him more every day. Not softly, not smoothly. John tries everything, and eventually suggests Sherlock on doing something crazy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for being so late, guys!!! D: I've been ill for a few days and I still feel horrible, so sorry if this chapter is a bit crappy :/

I used to love being alone.

I never found the companion that was so companionable as solitude.  
Then I met John and had to break down my walls to let him in.

January, 22nd. Very cold morning. Suppose John hasn’t woken up yet. Likes sleeping until late on Saturdays.

Make breakfast. Eggs and black tea. Boring. Kettle’s boiled. Four minutes. Kitchen’s messy, different parts of human bodies occupy half of the fridge. Mrs. Hudson will know how to handle these dirty dishes.

John enters the kitchen. No housecoat on him. No slippers. I think those are his good trousers.

“Where are you going”

Hesitates.

“The shop. See you later.”

“But I made breakfast for you!”

Cold.

Ungrateful.

Dismiss the fact that I did the same thing to him almost every day in the past. Sit. Try to eat; can’t. Quietly waiting for a catastrophe to happen. Does waking up count as well? Maybe.

Get up. Must find John. Find a pair of black trousers and a shirt. Leave Mrs. Hudson in complaints and cussing words.

John’s ten feet away from me. Can see his brown coat. Follow him for about 13 minutes. Hasn’t taken the bus or the cab.

Suddenly enters a store. Wait behind a parked cab. Gets out relatively soon. Holding something between his index finger and his middle finger.

Is that

a cigarette?

He seems to be returning. Jump right in front of him. Make him an idiot. That will work.

“Idiot, me? You’ve been on cracks for years and you call me an idiot?” He’s frustrated but so eager to taste that cigarette.

“Throw it away.”

“What if I don’t listen to you this time?”

Sudden anger.

“What if I just stopped listening to you, would you mind?” Anger’s growing. His face is red, his pupils dilated. “It’s my damn life and I have the right to stop it any time I wish, and you have no right upon it, upon me. Get the hell off my way.”

Confused.

“So it’s about the pain.”

Don’t move. Block his way.

“Of course it’s about the fucking pain, d’you think I started smoking because of how beautiful my life is? You sure I’m the stupid one in this relationship?”

“So it’s about me as well.”

His jaw clenches. I’ve never seen him like this.

“It’s about how perfectly miserable my life has become in the past weeks and how tired I am of everyday. Because I want to end it. I have nothing anymore.”

Say it.

Say it you idiot.

You have me. You’ve got me and everything I have.

Realize it means nothing. Who am I in the end? A robot? A magnificent creature who knows the crime rates in almost three hundred cities all across the world? A man who’s dedicated his life to what? To danger. I believe stupid people do this often.

He’s calmer.

“I want to do something.”

“Like what?”

“A 10% solution.”

***

“This is really the most extraordinarily interesting thing I’ve EVER done!!!”

“Guess you haven’t done much in life then.”

Laugh. Getting high helped us both. Broke the line between us. People always draw lines. Between them and the world. Live in small, dark places, avoiding crowds. Lines, lines everywhere.

Stars draw lines on the sky too. Shooting stars, to be more precise. They show you that everyone has past no one can change anymore. But it’s beautiful. A messy line is beautiful. A messy life? I guess that’s beautiful as well.

I came to the thought that our relationship rests on acceptance rather than pure love. We both know perfectly well how everything works. Things manifest in their own way on our unconscious level. We’re a machine, we were meant to function together.

“Shurlooooooooooock…”

“Yes, John?”

“You’re the most precious angel pie in the history of fucked up public figures.”

“Yes, John.”

Laugh again; John has never been on drugs, and even though this solution shouldn’t be that effective, it affects him a bit. He’s smoked a couple of cigarettes. Must feel like heaven for him.

“I love you, Sherlock, you’re my best friend.”

I love you, John, period.

He looks at me more serious than before. His eyes are tired and he looks dazzled.

“But I do love you and I hate the fact that I’ll be gone any time soon and you’ll solve your cases on your own without showing off in front of me. Without me telling you to accept those nice gifts victims’ families buy for you. Without any of this.”

And we sat in silence for the rest of the night, staring at the ceiling. We’ve broken the line. Unconsciously, but we’ve done it. Both on the carpet, our hands touching gently. Unwanted. Happened. 

“So what do we do now?”

“Stay like this. For a lifetime.”


	6. Beneath those stars

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There is no "I" in "Us"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please excuse me for being SO late :( I've had a tough time, I've been depressed and not able to write anything. Still recovering. I'll post the next chapter next week, when I come back from a trip! Have a nice day and enjoy!~

One of the most important (most human? kindest?) thing I’ve learnt from John is accepting others’ help in situations you’re not familiar with. I’ve stepped on my pride and accepted his pieces of advice regarding the Solar System.

“Have you ever watched the stars for a whole night?”

“Actually, stars don’t shine for a whole—“

“Oh, shut up.”

This is the story of how I’ve managed to sit still on the grass, with a beer and a camp fire next to me, and John. So quiet. Stars seem entities we’ll never approach.

“We’re such monsters compared to those,” John points at the dark sky, yawning. Eleven thirty six. Observes my silence. “If you want us to leave…”

Wake up from a land of imagination.

“No, it’s perfect. Not perfect, but close enough.”

Stands up and opens a bottle of beer.

“A toast to us and the days that will never come.”

At once, I realized something.

I was not superior.

Not magnificent.

Not even close to John’s personality. Not kind, not good, not anything. I wanted to defy stars for the first time in my life. Those brilliant jewels up on the sky, staring at me and John, laughing at our incapacities. Haven’t I done the same thing to others as well? Obviously.

Wait.

John talked to me once about this poet. Shakespeare, writing a theatre play. Romeo and Juliet. John read it to me as a punishment for leaving a piece of a liver in the freezer. “Then, I defy you, stars.”

Yes, those were the words.

Romeo has always seemed a bit too dramatic to me, since John read that bed time story out loud. Poets take everything so personally, sticking their emotions in irrelevant, emotionless things. That night I remembered my mother, reading me tons of boring, surreal stories that would only remind me life wasn’t anything but miserable and ordinary.

“So, what’s your opinion on the Solar System, now?”

“Unpredictable and big.”

“I wasn’t asking about the facts, cyborg.”

Giggles. Mean, bitchy actually, and true.

“I guess it’s fine.”

Knows my way of appreciating things can’t go further than “fine” and “ok”.

“Tell me a childhood story. Anything,” John closes his eyes, letting the shadow of a smile show up on his face.

Tempted to tell him about cutting Mycroft’s Captain America actionman into pieces to analyse its mechanical functions. Or that time I baked his smurfs. Or when I cut his hair to try and create a clone.

Two Mycrofts, eating twice more. Being parts of the Government.

Pissing me off.

No, I’m glad that experiment never happened.

“Well, I’ll tell you how I decided to become a consulting detective. Hm, I was about… eight years old, yes, eight years old. My father was away with work, and my mother was staying at home because she was sick. I remember how my father would barely call us, and how much we’d miss him. When he came home, after two weeks, I saw mud stains on his trousers, lipstick on his shirt and a pack of condoms in his bag. It was clear enough for me, but mum never wanted to accept that my father cheated on her. She had a very good opinion about herself. My father left two years later, but it wasn’t a surprise for me and Mycroft. We used to get along so well back then… But, yeah, since I discovered those little details no one had observed, I’ve known I was good. I’ve always looked for trouble, and trouble has always found me.”

John smiled. Thought he fell asleep, but he didn’t.

“Your turn, now.”

“Good. And because you brought the subject of careers in discussion, I’ll tell you about my first experience as a medical doctor. At first I wanted to be a surgeon. I was in love with the idea of neurosurgeries, they’re THAT big dream of every cold-blooded intern. I was an intern at Barts, actually. And this doctor, Trenden, he took me with him in an OR, and said to me – ‘I know about your dreams, boy. It’s not my job to convince you what to do with that diploma, but it’s my job to inform you what are a neurosurgeon’s responsabilities.’ And he brought me there, next to this patient. His name was Stevie Max Jones, and he was seventeen. Seventeen and with a brain tumor! Trenden let me watch him during the whole surgery, which was more than an intern could ask. At the end of it, I was so down, so sick, so depressed, that Trenden literally sent me to a bed. There was some tension I’ll never be able to explain, some default guilt only true surgeons can overcome. I knew it was only a crazy dream. I actually wanted to make a big difference. So I specialized on something I never regretted. And so I became an army doctor.”

“And so you became the best army doctor.”


End file.
